please mr. postman

There doesn't seem to be much to say today. I have a longing hang-over, the type that nothing seems to fill and no one seems to answer. I've been told again and again I have an artist's temperament. Well, being that I am one, I suppose it makes sense. Does anybody want to take it for me? The faucet is never off, the door never shut to wanting to express something, in paint, pencils, in writing, in another person's life. I feel love only to struggle endlessly with lust and selfish desire. I want to translate this into something good, but I don't know the language. For me, not to feel is to be dead. For other people it means their heart has stopped. For me it means there is nothing left to express and no one left to love. Some days I can't decide which state is more profitable. Truly.

So I go into today with this bucketful of stuff from days before, trying to turn it into something solid and worthwhile. Or I'll try to empty it all out on the lawn and not have to carry the the weight of it with me all day. There are people I wish I could see, but I cannot. I have them from a distance. There are people I wish I could reach, but I cannot. They hold themselves at a distance from me. There are people yet to be known in my life, but I don't know them now. My whole life is a walk among this tangled garden, waiting for things to be renewed, watching each relationship flower and die, reseed and try again.

Today there are no letters in my inbox or my porch box. I just have to wait.